


Every Step of the Way

by Pegasus_Eridana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I swear, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Work through the angst people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1980585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasus_Eridana/pseuds/Pegasus_Eridana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since losing his  parents and all but one of his siblings in a car crash, Castiel has been lost. The only solace he can find is in cutting, to try and feel some semblance of control over his own life. That changes when he meets one Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Step of the Way

**Author's Note:**

> Me again, with another anonymous tumblr prompter who, bless their soul, thought that I was the person to ask for angst. The prompt was high school AU where Cas cuts and is slight suicidal, and most of the actual angst in here is courtesy of my glorious editor Ismene_Jane, who treads realms of angst that I can only gaze at from afar, atop my fluffy clouds. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic contains fairly graphic depictions of self-harm as well as a couple of incidences of contemplation of suicide. While I have tried to treat the subject as delicately as possible, and have given it a happy ending, Cas is not in a good headspace at the beginning of this fic. Also, if you think I've missed anything that should be tagged, let me know in the comments. 
> 
> I'd also be interested to hear any feedback anyone has about dealing with this subject, because this is the first time I've even touched on it in a fic. 
> 
> Also, at the beginning Cas cuts the shape of a question mark into his thigh. This is because there was a panel with Misha that said he did that once when he was young. 
> 
> Having talked so much about the angst, it seems a little odd to hope that you enjoy this fic, but I am a creature of optimism, so enjoy!

Cas finished carving the question mark into his thigh and sat back, closing his eyes and sighing. He let the cleansing, punishing pain wash through him. The pain forced out the thoughts that had been present in his head ever since the car crash that took his parents and all but one of his siblings from him floated round his mind, creating scars to match the ones on his legs.

_You deserve this._

_You’re not worth the blade you cut with._

_Everyone leaves you. You’re not worth staying for._

_Might as well just end it now. Then everything will be as it should._

The forlorn bleep of the alarm clock drew him from the place in his head that he always went after cutting (or more accurately, the place in his head that swamped him like a tidal-wave; mercifully drowning him in blissful, physical pain instead of muddy, murky waters) and he jumped up from his place on the floor, gathered his books from where they were scattered everywhere, and thumped his way gracelessly down the stairs. He snagged an apple from the bottom of the fruit-bowl and was out of the front door before his older brother (and guardian) Lucifer had even left his bedroom.

***

That day was much like any other. Castiel went to school, sat silently at the back of his classes, bore it silently when Alastair and his cronies pushed him into the lockers and mocked him for his glasses and cheap backpack, sat silently and alone to eat his apple at lunch. He didn’t eat much, liking to focus on the aching hunger instead of the desolation that was always pushing at his mind. The _last_ thing he needed was to break down in school. So he munched away, revelling in his self-control.

After school, as he always did, he took the back-way home, through the woods. He paused, as he always did, at a wooden bridge which spanned a wide, silent river; clambering up onto and over the wooden slats at the sides to stare into the deep, dark water. He imagined the water as an extension of the river of shit that ran through and around his mind continually.

Castiel thought that one day that river below him would rise up to join with the river in his mind, and he would drown. It was inevitable.

He stepped back down onto the bridge and got to trudging the rest of the way home in time to cook dinner for when Lucifer got back from work. The thought of seeing his brother, being faced with the emptiness in his once vibrant eyes, set Castiel shaking. He focused, instead, on what would come later.

Later he would go up to his room, lock the door, take off his jeans, and make a shallow cut in the soft skin of his thighs. Then he would go to bed, and try to let the oblivion of sleep claim him for a while.

It was the next day that things changed. Most of the day had been normal (Castiel didn’t usually cut in the mornings – the day before had been an exception and the result of a night full of bad dreams). His classes, his lonely lunch-of-apple, his exhaustion: Normal.

It wasn’t until Castiel was standing on the bridge that there was a change in the monotonous routine of his day.

As always, he was staring into the water and contemplating the fact that, of the billions of people in the world, only one would even notice if he was gone. And Lucifer was already grieving; how much of a difference would the loss of Castiel really make?

His thoughts were interrupted by a panicked voice, rapidly getting closer.

“Hey! Hey, what are you doing up there? Come back, you’ll fall!”

Before he knew it, a warm hand was grasping Castiel’s wrist and pulling him off the top of the railings where he had been balanced. He stumbled as his feet hit the ground, and found himself careening into a solid body. Arms came up and held him steady.

“Woah there,” said the same voice from before, and Castiel now realised that it was familiar. His suspicions were confirmed when he looked up and was met with a gaze from intensely green eyes.

Dean Winchester, high school boxing champ, co-founder and president of the LARPing club, and envy of all. Figured, that it would be Mr My-Life-Is-Perfect who was witnessing Castiel’s darkest and most private moments.

“Dean?” Castiel said, flustered. “What are you doing here?”

“Might ask you the same question,” returned Dean, worry still clear in his eyes.

“I was thinking,” said Castiel, sounding more defensive than he had intended. He carefully extricated himself from Perfect-Dean Winchester’s arms and smoothed down his rumpled clothing. He felt warm from where Dean had held him, and he tried not to blush.  

“You make a habit of thinkin’ on top of places you could fall off?” Dean asked.

“I really don’t see why you would care, or what business it is of yours anyway,” retorted Castiel, before realising that perhaps that was a little harsh. Dean had only been trying to help, after all. “I appreciate your efforts to help me, Dean, but honestly, I assure you, I am fine.” With that, he walked away, leaving Dean staring after him.

Castiel made it halfway home before he realised that it was the first time in the year since his family had died that he felt _good_ without being in pain. His hand came up to his heart, cautiously, as if by pressing too hard, he would jar the warmth he felt there. He stood like that for far too long before continuing home, hand over his heart the whole way.

***

The next day at lunch, Castiel jumped violently when Dean plopped down next to him. Dean just grinned and opened his lunch bag. It had the Star Trek crest on it, which Castiel actually found kind of adorable. The warm feeling returned, and it made him defensive.

“What are you doing, Dean?” he asked.

“Having lunch, what’s it look like?” replied Dean. Before Castiel could ask what Dean was doing having lunch with _him_ , Dean opened his mouth and spoke again.

“ _Dude,_ ” he said, sounding scandalised. “Is that all you’ve had to eat?” He nodded towards the apple core that Castiel was still nibbling.

“Yes,” said Castiel, hoping that the _what do you care?_ was implicit.

“ _No_ ,” returned Dean. He dug into his bag and pulled out a sandwich, waving it triumphantly at Castiel. “Here y’go,” he said, handing it to Castiel. “PB an’ J, made it myself this morning.”

“I can’t accept this, Dean,” said Castiel, surprised at how touched he was by the gesture.

“Bull,” said Dean. “I’ve got another one, and you’d be doin’ me a favour. Got to watch my weight.” He winked, patting his (as far as Castiel could tell) completely flat and toned stomach. Castiel humoured him though, and took the proffered sandwich.

It was really good. And Castiel found that he didn’t need the ache in his guts when Dean Winchester was seated beside him.

***

Over the next few weeks, Castiel found himself more and more in Dean’s company. Sometimes also in the company of Dean’s friends, which Castiel enjoyed in moderation, although sometimes it all got too much for him and he would quietly retreat to be alone for a while.

Dean seemed to have this sixth sense; he could usually tell when Castiel had had enough, and never pressured him to stay. Other times, he wouldn’t even take Castiel over to the rest of the group, and instead it would just be the two of them. It amazed Castiel that someone like Dean would want to hang around just with someone like _him_ , but he did and it wasn’t something Castiel wanted to jeopardise by asking about.

Slowly, the dark, noxious cloud that had been surrounding Castiel lifted, dispelled by the brightness that was Dean’s soul. The voices in his head telling him of his unworthiness receded, and Castiel found himself almost looking forward to waking up in the morning and going to school. Dean was enough to stave off the ache, the loneliness, during school hours.

He didn’t stop cutting, though.

The _need_ he felt to slice the art scalpel he had stolen through his skin was too much when he was alone at night. It felt like it was almost unrelated to his mental state now, and it had got past the point where Castiel really thought about it. He just did it; afraid to stop the routine that had gotten him through the past year, Perfect-Dean-Winchester or no.

***

One sunny afternoon, months after they had first met, Castiel had finally gained the courage to ask Dean to come to his house after school. He had checked with Lucifer whose face had lit up at the positive proof that Castiel had friends, making Castiel want to throw his arms around his older brother so the light in his eyes would stay for as long as possible.

Lucifer of course agreed, so there was nothing left for Castiel to do but obsess and worry about asking Dean, almost chickening out completely. He had finally mustered up the courage to ask, however, and had been met with such warm acceptance that he forgot why he had been nervous in the first place.

The nerves returned on the day that Dean came home with him, though. Before he had left in the morning, Castiel had made sure that the house was all in order, that his room was tidy, and that his scalpel was carefully hidden under his pillow as it always was (as the one in charge of laundry, Castiel was confident that Lucifer would never have a reason to look there). He spent the day terrified that Dean would have found some kind of excuse to bail on him, but his fears proved unfounded when he left his last class to see Dean waiting for him with a huge smile on his face.

That smile. Castiel wasn’t stupid; he knew that the chances that Dean was both gay and interested in someone like himself were infinitesimal,  yet he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like if Dean were waiting for him like this every day, ready with that smile and maybe a kiss, too. Before he met Dean, Castiel hadn’t thought that he had any kind of future. Now he was becoming increasingly sure that the only future he wanted was one with Dean at his side.

The thought was both exhilarating and excruciatingly terrifying, and Castiel’s fingers itched to be holding his scalpel.  

Swallowing his emotions, Castiel walked up to Dean and greeted him. They set off to walk the quickest way to Castiel’s house, but then Dean suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him down another path, the one leading into the woods.

“Dean, what are you--” Cas began, but stopped before he finished his sentence as he realised where they were.

They were standing on the bridge where they had first “met” (Castiel thought of it that way, though he had met Dean more than once before the fateful day that Dean pulled him off of the railing), where Castiel used to go to contemplate just throwing himself in, and where Castiel had not re-visited since a few weeks after he met Dean.

“Why are we here, Dean?” he asked, more confused than anything else. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“Uh, well, y’see Cas, I kinda…I wanted to say somethin’ to you, have been wantin’ to for a while now, but I just…uh, shit I had it all planned out, but I…fuck it. Cas, I really, _really_ like you and, um, if you would consider, uh, maybe dating me, then, then I think that’d be…really cool,” he finished rather lamely, but Castiel didn’t care. There was only one aspect of Dean’s speech that he was interested in.

“You _like_ me?” he repeated incredulously.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said.

“You want to _date_ me?” Castiel asked, needing to be absolutely sure.

“Yeah, Cas. I really do,” Dean replied, looking nervous and hopeful at the same time.

Castiel did not give him a verbal answer.

The kiss, however, full of soft sighs and happy moans and teeth clacking together because they were both smiling so much, well… that pretty much answered for him.

***

Later that day, Dean and Castiel were happily curled up together on Castiel’s bed, watching Star Trek episodes. Castiel was comfortably seated between Dean’s legs, his back to Dean’s chest, his head resting just under Dean’s chin. Dean’s arms stroked gently up and down his sides and through his hair, and every now and then Castiel could feel soft kisses pressed into his hair. He sighed contentedly. He hadn’t felt this at peace for longer than he could remember.

It all continued that way, until Dean decided to start a tickle fight.

In the resultant thrashing and wiggling, Castiel’s pillows were dislodged, and the scalpel clattered onto the floor.

Both boys froze.

Castiel couldn’t seem to move, to think up, some, _any_ kind of excuse. Yet his blood was pounding, his heart thundering, and he began to brace himself against the anger, the surprise, the hurt, and, almost worst of all, the pity as Dean slowly picked up the scalpel. Yet the first words to come out of Dean’s mouth were not the ones Castiel had expected.

“Where?” he asked, his voice hoarse with some emotion that Castiel was too on-edge to identify. He was trying to fight the waves of worthlessness that were threatening to spill over. He knew Dean would be disgusted, knew the golden-boy of his dreams would never want someone as damaged as Castiel, knew that this was the last thing that--

“Wait, what?” Castiel asked, caught off-guard by the question.

“Where do you cut?” Dean elaborated. For a split second, Castiel considered lying. Then he saw the look in Dean’s eyes, the certainty that he knew exactly what Castiel had been doing, yet strangely blank beyond that knowledge.

“Insides of my thighs,” he replied shortly, again expecting a reaction from Dean that didn’t come. He realised, belatedly, that he was sitting in a ball, arms curled around his knees as if he were expecting an attack. It never came.

Instead, Dean undid the belt of his jeans, and slowly pulled them down to his knees, revealing something that Castiel hadn’t been anticipating seeing when he’d imagined Dean taking his pants off in front of him.

Scars; marching their way up the front of Dean’s thighs, matching Castiel’s but obviously much older, and faded, left to heal where Castiel kept re-opening his.

“Three years ago. I was fourteen,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “There was a fire at our house – me, my baby brother Sammy and my Mom were trapped inside. My Dad was in the middle of his shift at the fire station. Ironic, huh? I got Sammy out and went back in for Mom, but the staircase collapsed and I couldn’t…I couldn’t get to her. Spent a month in the hospital being treated for broken bones and I think that’s when I started…using the pain as a kind of…a kind of way to deal with losing her, y’know?” Dean stopped to clear his throat and Castiel’s heart clenched in his chest at the knowledge of the pain that Dean must have gone through – physically and emotionally, the kind of pain that Castiel knew all too well to ever wish on anyone. Dean continued talking.

“So, then, when I healed and went home to Dad and Sammy, I’d just cut so…I suppose so I could still _feel_ , so I could have control over something when everything else was just goin’ to shit. I know how it feels, Cas, feelin’ like you’re a balloon or something, and you keep filling and filling ‘til you know you can’t stretch any further, so you cut just to relieve the pressure under your skin.

“Anyway, I kept doin’ it for a year or so, then my Dad walked in on me one day. Man, I thought he was either gonna cry or wallop me, but instead he just gives me this massive hug, then drags me off to this old friend of his, Missouri Mosely, who’s a psychiatrist. She helped me put those feelings into other stuff, into the boxing and LARPing, and into car restoration with my uncle Bobby. She said that whenever I felt that kind of ballooned-up-pressure-under-the-skin-thing, I should just _vent_ as hard as I could on whatever worked best for me. I mean, I found that going to town on a punchin’ bag or using a sledgehammer on one of Bobby’s rusty old bits of scrap metal did it for me, but she said that other people can do it just by talking, or keeping a journal, or doing something creative instead. Whatever. It worked, and I haven’t cut on myself in two years,” Dean finished proudly, and Castiel felt a swell of pride for him, too.

But then Dean continued.

“What I’m trying to say Cas, is that I’ve been where you are, and I swear to you it gets better. People will help you, all you gotta do is _ask_.”

Castiel felt a surge of irritation. This was so much to take in in a short period of time, and now Dean wanted to be some kind of saviour? Bull.

“I don’t need saving, Dean,” he snapped. Dean looked taken aback but not overly shocked. Perhaps he had had the same reaction when his father found out. Regardless, Castiel continued. “I don’t need you or anyone else to try and _fix_ me. I don’t need your pity, and I didn’t ask for your help.”

He expected Dean to be left speechless by that, and the stabbing knowledge that he had just ruined their relationship before they even really had one itched at Castiel’s skin. He clung to the anger, the pain in his heart that he’d felt when he had first realised that his family was all but gone. He waited for Dean to yell, to leave, to tell Castiel that he was the worthless piece he _knew_ he was. But once again, Dean surprised him.

“You don’t _need_ to be saved, or fixed, Cas,” he said gently, reaching out and taking Castiel’s hand in his own warm one. “You’re not broken or helpless and you’re _certainly_ not weak. You’re not some kind of damsel in distress, which is good because like _crap_ am I some kind of white knight.” He grinned ruefully and Castiel sniggered in spite of himself before Dean continued. “You just…you just need to believe that you’re _worth_ saving and then you’ll be halfway there. And trust me Cas, you are _so_ worth it,” Dean finished speaking with a shine in his eyes that looked suspiciously like tears, and Castiel felt all of his anger and defensiveness drain away, leaving exhaustion and a deep, aching sadness. He leaned his weight into Dean, and Dean held him as the pain from the last year finally started spilling over.

“I’m just so _sick_ of it all, Dean!” he said, finally letting himself cry. “I just want it to stop!” It felt _good_ , enormously good, to let it out. And Dean was there, taking his pain, easing it out of Castiel’s heart and mind as Castiel finally, _finally_ , let it out.

“I know, Cas. It’s okay,” Dean murmured into Castiel’s hair. “You’re gonna get through this, and I’m gonna be there every step of the way.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Castiel let hope replace his pain and anger. He let himself believe that it would be okay.

***

**_Six Years Later_ **

Castiel felt the familiar sensation of his scalpel moving smoothly through the fleshy surface, and he smiled in relief as the tensions of the day fell from his shoulders. He made another precise cut, and squeezed to make sure he hadn’t gone too deep. He didn’t often feel the need to do this in the middle of the night anymore, but a stressful day at the studio coupled with an inability to get to sleep had sent him looking for some kind of outlet.

Then he felt arms snake around him from behind as a kiss was dropped onto his neck.

“Hey there, Blue Eyes,” drawled Dean in an exaggerated accent. “I woke up an’ missed ya in our bed.”

Castiel laughed fondly and put down the clay he had been modelling before wiping his hands and then turning to face Dean, winding his arms around his husband’s neck.

“You alright?” Dean asked, eyes searching Castiel’s face not in fear but in loving attention. “You haven’t needed to vent in the middle of the night for a while.”

Castiel thought about the last six years; the struggles and the long, difficult path to recovery that he had had to tread. How Dean had been right beside him even in the worst moments, supporting and encouraging Castiel to keep going, keep trying. How he had learned to channel his feelings and emotions into art and how he had learned to carve into clay instead of his own skin. How he had now not used the scalpel on himself in almost four years, and how Dean was still beside him, constant and true.

He thought of all these things and felt the warm feeling of Dean, of _home_ wash through him. How that feeling had meant “love” long before he knew it.

Castiel leant forward and kissed Dean, long and slow and smooth, and when they broke apart he spoke.

“My darling,” he said, smiling. “I am _fine_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback? Yiss yiss?
> 
> Also, my tumblr name is heckamightygadzooks. Come and hang out with me/ have a chat/ give me ficlet prompts (either here or over on the good old tumble-bumble).


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